


this is not a moment

by naimeria



Series: yours [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naimeria/pseuds/naimeria
Summary: “I am not throwing away my shot,” he says, Lenora stepping forward and standing to her full height, and suddenly, he’s among friends. It’s a delight that is new to him, and he knows he wants to bring them close, share plans for the future and revel in their camaraderie.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: yours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886923
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	this is not a moment

**Author's Note:**

> To start: this is a very self-indulgent au. This will serve as an introduction into said au, hence the non-linear narrative. 
> 
> Dæmons, for those that might not know, are a physical embodiment of one's soul. An animal that, during childhood can take any shape, your dæmon is a direct reflection of yourself, while also showing a counterbalance to your personailty. When one reaches adulthood, a dæmon settles into the form that best reflects their human's true nature. To touch someone else's dæmon is the highest taboo, unless the dæmon initiates this contact. This is a high honor, reserved for the closest of loved ones (dæmons are social with one another, however, and will come into contact with each other freely).
> 
> They are not my creation, but were thought up by Phillip Pullman for his series, His Dark Materials.
> 
> Dæmon list:  
> Hamilton: Lenora (Wolverine)  
> Laurens: Adonia (Jaguar)  
> Lafayette: Meilleur (Marten)  
> Mulligan: Laraine (Terrier)  
> Burr: Adaramel (Kestrel)  
> Washington: Rielle (Lion)

He remembers, more than anything, the smell. The way the couch, rank with moisture and filth, filled the room with the odor of the dying. The blankets yellowed and frayed, their clothes wrinkled and grey. His mother’s daemon, a purple-throated hummingbird whose feathers normally shone bright, dulled as they fell out one by one. And when the two of them faded from the world, his Lenora took the form of a green-throated carib and didn’t shift for almost a month.

By the time he was able to put the smell from his thoughts, he was on a ship sailing to new prospects, his mother’s tender smile following him along the waves. 

“I have been looking for you!”

“I’m getting nervous.” 

First opinions are rarely accurate, but they can be quite telling, and Alexander surmises much from his meeting of one Aaron Burr. For one, his daemon, a beautiful tight-winged kestrel who says nary a word as they trade in pleasantries, tells Alexander that Burr is a man of patience and action with much regard for consequence. Lenora, as ostentatious as all wolverines are, watched the bird with a thinly guarded judgement. 

Burr himself tells Alexander that he does not favor action, but a sort of pacifism that Alexander knows will get a man near to nowhere. His judgement of Alexander’s daemon doesn’t go unnoticed either, and he seems to realize his words are not going to stick as he says them. 

The prospects of the Princeton graduate seem, in a word, lackluster, but not without potential. 

Nonetheless, he takes Burr’s hand in greeting, regardless of his advice leaving something to be desired. He will not turn his nose up at a friend, as Alexander is in need of one of those. 

Or four, as he would soon learn. 

The idle chatter in the pub is quickly overcome by jovial and proud proclamations of change and revolution, and there is no avoiding the gravitational pull towards a cause that Alexander finds so near to his heart. In truth, for a moment he is somewhat torn, used to being an outlier to the goings on of strangers, but while Burr encourages the men to be discreet, Alexander is silently encouraging them to continue. These are men worth the valor they call upon to be sure! 

A freckled man with hair pulled tight and a beautiful spotted cat at his side speaks of an emancipated battalion, fists hitting the table he is at with fervor, and Alexander immediately finds himself endeared. He looks young, but they all do, upon reflection, and his eyes shine in the lights suspended above them. And beside the man are two others, both joining in easily and with equal passion, an animal resembling a tawny weasel beside one, a striped cat with shining gold eyes by the other. The first, a Frenchman by sound, tall and jovial, seems to spot him first, but his gaze glances before detouring to his companion, a man deep of voice but pleasant of disposition. 

So when Burr jumps to silence, Alexander cannot stand by and let their passions be quieted. In fact, Burr seems as startled as the men he’s watched by his interruption, but it won’t quiet him either. Nothing will - it’s a promise he’d made to his late mother, and to himself, years past. 

“I am not throwing away my shot,” he says, Lenora stepping forward and standing to her full height, and suddenly, he’s among friends. It’s a delight that is new to him, and he knows he wants to bring them close, share plans for the future and revel in their camaraderie. 

None more so than with one John Laurens, he soon comes to realize. The Marquis and Mulligan are fine men, ones he would happily share a drink and a battle with, but Laurens is easy to talk to in a way that is almost foreign to him. It’s a delightful realization, and when they’re not together Alexander finds he misses him more than he can say. 

Not that they’re not together often, of course. In the weeks and months to follow, the revolution they’d been singing for is upon them, and the four of them embrace it like drowning men to air. Late nights to early mornings see them discussing plans and means of action, while their daemons sit at their side, listening and adding in their valuable contributions. Laurens’ Adonia is as decisive as her companion, tail flicking this way and that as she thinks and argues alongside Laurens’ baritone. Alexander sees her and Lenora together more often than not, which comes to little surprise, but is still a sight that brings warmth to his chest and cheeks. 

“You and I, do or die,” Laurens says, eyes beholding that same shine Alexander remembers seeing the first night they’d met, and he knows his Laurens means it. 

Their General, they come to learn, is a man of acclaim. 

Words speak of his prowess in rallying men to his cause and in fighting alongside them. He is a hard man to miss, and Alexander knows immediately where he wants to be. 

The ease in which they rise to their new standing in the coming months should be a surprise, but Alexander finds he and his companions might have been born for this. In truth, he feels he was always born with too many thoughts, and conglomeration of words and phrases that yearn to leap from his mouth, his fingertips. To make his mark on the world is what he wants, and now that he’s here, he will not shy from it. 

When he is assigned as his right hand, parchment and quill held out in request, Alexander sees all potential and possibilities as though he could reach out and touch them. He settles for taking his new charge in hand, and saluting once to His Excellency, and once to his daemon, a cat larger than Laurens’ Adonia, coat sleek and tan and rippling atop powerful muscle. He does not know her name, but the lion nods to his salute nonetheless, something like amusement shining in her amber eyes. 

By the time he makes it back to their tent, John is pink-faced with joy for him, and Lafayette has him in arm, raising a toast much like the one in the bar so many months ago. 

Alexander drinks in their praise, and thinks of tomorrow. Of his twenty-first birthday, with surprise, and to many more beyond that, should he be gifted with such time. 

There is little room on the battlefield for glory. 

Men that haven’t beheld one will tell you otherwise, but time makes them all fools. It’s the pungent reek of blood, the screams of death as men and horses alike fall to the ground to never rise again. The worst is the golden haze along the battlement, the stain of daemon’s deaths blanketing the ground far as the eye can see. 

Lenora’s jowls are dripping with blood and saliva, and her rage is in him, too, in the way his own claw is stained red. He is surrounded by men, but he has never felt so alone, torn from the faces he wants to protect; all he has is the push to live, and the ache in his arms from his bayonet, in his legs as he marches on and on. 

When the battle is over, Lafayette is marred with blood that doesn’t belong to him, tall and regal in his own boisterous way. Laurens is a kindling flame, shoulder a bleeding ruin but his spirits not yet dulled by the pain. He seems as relieved to see Alexander alive as he is of Laurens, and they embrace immediately. 

Lafayette humors them with a smile, and then tuts _pas de prudence_ on behalf of his comrade’s injury. His daemon Meilleur, little in stature but not in voice, climbs down the Marquis’ shoulder to Adonia, who limps to the Marten but manages to look as pleased as a jaguar can. They talk in low tones and Lenora leaves Alexander’s side to join them, her shoulder pressed against Adonia’s haunch. 

It’s not what Alexander imagined a Revolution would look like, but in this moment, it looks like a future.


End file.
